Truly Beautiful Days

There are beautiful days, and then there are beautiful days.  And Murphy's Law dictates that the truly beautiful days fall strictly on workdays, leaving them beautiful only to the sprawl and crawl of rush-hour traffic, and the brief, tantalizing glimpse during a rare lunch hour.  But once in a while, Mother Nature bares her rebelious streak and tries to buck the system.

Like Saturday, for example. 

We lucked out and were graced by one of the most beautiful days for outdoor fun that I have seen on a weekend in a long, long while.  The overnight temperature, according to the sensor on our back deck, was 49.  By 9am, it read 84.  Not like it was really 84 at that point, the sensor being squarely in the path of the rising sun in the East, but it gives you some indication of the way things were headed.  And, miraculous for this part of the world, there was no humidity to spoil it.  Like, none.

The day started off at 5:30am (what is Sammi thinking these days?  just because the birds are chirping and the sun is shining brightly through your East-facing window, does *not* mean you can get out of bed, Missy...) with the usual hang-around-the-house-type activities.  At 11:30, we went to the local DSANV picnic, where we met up with Megan and Ellie, Kelly and Charlotte, and Lexi and Abby.  I always enjoy those DSA gatherings, although there is usually more to do than any almost-6-year-old can handle without a nap. 

But, glutton for punishment that I am, I thought I'd push my luck just a little bit, and head from there over to the county Bluegrass Festival a friend had alerted me to.  Again, no nap.  Not even in the car.  Well, not anything more than a head nod requiring a shout from me to wake up!, as we came within a 1/2 mile of our destination.  Sheesh, seriously?  We could be in the car for 30 minutes, and she starts to doze then?  The misery to be heaped upon me if I allowed such a thing would, in absolutely no uncertain terms, not. be. worth. it.  And so it was not to be.

No nap.

Running on fumes. 

For Samantha, this kind of thing means, quite simply, that she doesn't listen.  At all.  Like, to the point that it makes me look like a shite parent for dragging her off some guy's guitar case she was lying down on.  Or for dragging her from the steps to the stage where a band was playing in front of several hundred people.  Or for dragging her away from the bird poop-covered bleachers she insisted on crawling up, hand over knee (picking my battles, I eventually gave in to that one - bird poop can be washed off...), or for dragging her out of the questionable mud puddle she and her bare feet in Crocs insisted on jumping square into the center of, or for dragging her away from the kazoo box as she tried to return the spitty orange one I'd just paid for that she'd been blowing her germs into for the past 10 minutes, and stopping her from putting a new yellow one she'd grabbed instead to her lips, or for.......yeah, the list kinda goes on like that. 

Sammi made a new friend.

Little girls in cotton, floral-print dresses.  So sweet, so nostalgic, so fitting. 

I'd never been to a bluegrass festival before, although I've always wanted to.  Bluegrass music is a funny thing - while I don't know all that much about it, and couldn't ever name a particular band, I just love it.  It seems to unite several very interesting segments of our society, from the country folk to the alternative hipsters.  It speaks so much to America's roots, pulling, further back, from the music of our European ancestors.  There's just so much feeling, calling a part of me that I can't quite put my finger on.  Maybe it's something from my childhood, maybe a past life, I don't know.  But just hearing it sets such a mood.  It reminds me of the time Steve and I drove up through Scotland 21 years ago, stopping several days at Loch Lomond.  We rented a rowboat and as we made our way out through the center of the quiet, still loch, we could hear a single bagpipe, off in the distance.  I'll venture to say, however, that bluegrass does not remind me of the unusual ripples in the water we witnessed as we sat on an island in the center, eating our lunch...  Don't they say the lochs of Scotland are connected via a labyrinth of underground caverns?   

Pick-up jam sessions, scattered throughout the festival site.  Have instrument, can play.

This stage, inside a huge barn, was on the flatbed of a semi parked there.  Totally cool.

Rebel.  On the bird crap-covered bleachers, exhausted beyond description, just about to stick her filthy, bird-crap-and-dirt covered fingers into her mouth just to spite me, just because I told her not to.  Defiance at it's most obvious.

Dang, that bus is beautiful!  Two of my favorite, favorite colors together (orange and turquoise).  Drool...

See that puddle next to the bus below?  Yep, that's the questionable one.  My initial thoughts were sewage leaking from a toilet on the bus.  My later (and more hopeful) thoughts were that it was from condensation off the A/C unit.  I believe that the photo below was just as she spied the object of her obsession and ran straight for it.  I'm thankful for paper towels and antibacterial gel...

All in all, Samantha had a good time, exploring.  I don't think she gave a rat's behind about the music (although she likes most music anyway), but what kid wants to stand in one spot for any period of time, anyway?  Will we do this again?  Absolutely.

Especially in perfect weather.